


Misplaced warrior

by FangirlWolfie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Dark but not Evil Harry, Friendship, Monster - Freeform, Powerful Harry, demon, slightly crazy harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4112098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangirlWolfie/pseuds/FangirlWolfie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes life doesn’t turn out how you planed. Sometimes the demons inside of you takes over and you just don’t know what the fuck happened.</p>
<p>A story about how true friends manages to save what’s left of Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misplaced warrior

Life hadn’t turned out as it was supposed to.

Actually, things had gone more wrong than anyone had ever suspected, at least after forth year.

I’ve always been temperamental. Growing up with pigs and tormentors as your guardians did that, especially when the backhanding and “Harry hunting” started after I’d turned six. But I’d grown up all right considering the starvation, mistreatment and lack of friends in my earlier years. Or so they had thought. 

To be frank, I though so as well, always considering myself strong. Always thinking that my morality and righteousness would stand above every thing else, no matter what the world turned to. 

It would be an understatement to say that I’d never been more wrong. Because I had been wrong, so very wrong. 

After forth year with the death of Cedric and the return of snake-face himself my brain had become weird. I’d become weird. My nightmare grew worse when I went to the Dursleys that summer but instead of being scared of the dead Hufflepuff’s cries and the madman’s laughter, I just broke. 

Not in the emotional way of course, or perhaps in just that way… It was, to be frank, a very foggy transition between “when I was normal” to “when I became twisted”. 

Twisted, as in broken and healed in the wrong way. 

That something was wrong with me was pretty apparent, at least to myself. But beside the lack of empathy when I thought about death or friendship, nothing had really changed. So for the first few weeks in my new state of mind I could ignore it. Because right then it had been nothing big, nothing serious. Just small gestures that the old Harry would never do. Like ignoring his friends’ letters, dreaming about cutting instead of disarming and clenching his fists a lot more than he’d ever done. 

Small signs, easily ignored in favour of pretending that I was fine, that I still was the golden boy everyone looked up to and worshipped. I had a whole wizard world that looked at me as a saviour. And saviours didn’t dream about putting a red smile on Voldemort’s throat. 

So for the first few weeks I blamed Cedric’s death. I recognised that I had a delayed reaction to his death, that this was me mourning. I’d always done things my way, so this might be my way of dealing with sorrow and self-blame of his death. To be frank, I wasn’t drowning in self-loathing anymore, because when I thought about the Hufflepuff all I felt was cold indifferent. Like his death was another thing that happened during the school year in the same way that the Transfiguration classes had happened. 

I knew that I felt wrong. I knew that my thinking were wrong, that the indifference were wrong and that something was terrible wrong with me, Harry James Potter. 

Sadly enough it was only a vague notion called logic that told me how I should feel, how I used to feel. Because at the moment I didn’t feel. But it’s not your thoughts that make you; it’s your actions. 

I realised for the first time that this state that my mind was in, the empty void it had become, wasn’t going to disappear when I hit Dudley. 

It was another one of the “Harry hunts” moments where he and his gang came up to me. Being all big and tuff with new caps and chains around their necks. Something akin to anticipation had awoken inside of me when they came strolling up where I sat at the side of the park. 

“Hey look it’s the freak”, one of Dudley’s friends had screamed as they approached. The group had laughed in response and I’d felt myself almost smile. 

They had taunted me for a bit, but as I’d sat unresponsive they proceeded with rough shoves. Dragging me up from the bench on which I’d been positioned and continued their assault. 

I should have seen the signs when I didn’t feel like running. Usually I ran whenever Dudley and his gang started to approach me, I didn’t fancy getting punched as I couldn’t use magic, but this time I stayed. Like my body knew what I was going to do before my mind did. 

When Dudley didn’t shove me but instead got ready to do some real damage I struck him first. It was just a quick jab over his nose but damn it felt good. These last weeks had been grey and itchy. Nothing felt anymore and there had been something I missed. Something that made me wake up from violent dreams with a warm feeling in my chest and itching fingers. 

That feeling had been the sweet dream-sensation of violence.

But reality always topped dreams and after the first punch my mind had gotten lost in a red fog. When I’d emerged from whatever wave that had washed over me, I found myself straddling Dudley and what was left of his face. The odd feeling was not the numb sensation in my fist nor the bodies shattered around me, it was the joy. The pure happiness that emerged as I watched the red mess beneath me and the only thing that made me jerk away was when my logical side pointed out that this was bad. That Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizard world and a hero had lost his sense of right and wrong. 

Had lost what had made him good. 

Dudley had survived, even if his face hadn’t. But after a plastic surgery they’d managed to fix his crushed jaw and nose, too bad his tongue was a lost case. He’d managed to bite it off as I’d repeatedly driven my fist into his face; it had been a wonder that he hadn’t died drowning in his own blood. 

I knew that I should feel disgusted with myself for almost killing my cousin and his fat friends, but I didn’t. 

The Dursley’s threw me out pretty quick after that. Not that I blame them, I didn’t really care, still don’t actually. But where I expected Dumbledore with twinkling eyes I found myself face to face with Mr Price. 

Mr Price (or “just Price” as the man himself insisted) came from some kind of death squad outside of any magical- or human government. They took me in as I had “potential”. I wondered how the hell they could see that after I’d simply beat down some muggles but as I shook Price’s hand without a thought of Dumbledore or anyone else I sealed my fate. 

Honestly it might have been one of the smartest decisions in my life as I’m pretty unsure what would have become of me if I had continued to ignore my feral side. Maybe I’d gone into a rampage after something set me off and would have killed everything in my wake? I’d probably have fallen off the edge of mental sanity after such a fit, not that I was a prime model for mental health at the moment but you get my drift. 

So I’d hooked up with the death squad. And what fun it had been. My old self would probably have experienced four years in hell, but I felt like I’d found home. We went all over the world, fighting wars and other people’s fights. I was the youngest of the five of us and probably the only one who had a voice in my head that said what was right and wrong. Sadly enough that voice is getting weaker by the day and even thought I know that the voice isn’t mine but old Harry’s, I feel unease about losing it. 

Maybe I’m not ready to go totally off the map of mental sanity, or maybe I have a sparkle of morality left that begs me to listen to the voice. Because sometimes I do, sometimes I listen. Sometimes after an especially bloody day I lie in the darkness and listen to the voice that reminds me of what I am. That tells me what a horrible monster I’ve become and begs me to stop. But I can’t stop, not when it feels this good to do what I do. Kill and maim that is.

Now after four years of battle and ruthless killing we’re going after Voldemort. The rest of the squad don’t know who he is, I’m actually the only wizard from England in our odd group so I suppose it makes sense. 

Before I ventured from the path of good, before I knew how it felt to kill a man or the joy of tortured screams, I thought about Voldemort as an enemy to the world. That he had to be stopped because otherwise the whole world would perish, not just England but the world. Then, four years on the field, four years all over our planet, I realised that Voldemort was nothing. He was actually a seemingly decent villain. He killed with Avada Kedavra, had a group of followers that he tortured occasionally and he didn’t bother overly many people.

That wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t mass murderer. It wasn’t official hanging. It was the swiftest killing possible to those who opposite him. But still, we had our orders and I felt oddly empty about the whole affair. 

That was until I got the orders about infiltrating Hogwarts. 

Price had approached me after another successful mission to tell me about the plan. Voldemort had roamed free in England long enough and it was time to stop the mad man before things got out of control. My reaction to the news was a mix of expectations and dread. I’d not had any contacts with anyone from my home since I left that fateful day four years ago. The last they had seen of me had been Harry Potter, the brave and dutiful boy who fought for what he believed was right. The “Expelliarmus”-boy. 

Now I’d changed. Something happened four years ago and I was now someone different. I didn’t have the lines that told me when enough was enough, there was no “wrong” ways as long as you got the job done. I enjoyed being feared, enjoyed the power I wheeled over my fellow kin and how my life was.

Mike, one of my fellow death squad members had once summarized our existence after a particular bloody battle in the deserts of Africa. 

“Fire, blood and madness.”

My inner Harry had agreed about the statement and reminded me that I should feel bad, that I should cry and puke and flee from what I had become. Strangely enough Harry had always just been that… a voice in my head. Never a feeling.

When Price informed me about Hogwarts and how they needed someone on the inside I’d declined. For the first time in four years of service I had declined an order. Even thought I loved violence and felt little to nothing for my fellow wizards there was one thing I never wanted to do. Return to the ones that had known the old me. 

Maybe it was the voice inside of me that argued well enough for me to actually listen, because I didn’t want anyone I used to know to see me. I didn’t want anyone to look at me with disbelieving eyes and fear that once was my friend. 

Because I knew that I wasn’t normal; I knew that I craved violence and here in the middle of Death Squad that was okay. Expected even. Back there with people fighting for the “right” reasons and for a “bright” future violence was not something that you welcomed. It was a necessary evil and something you had nightmares about the rest of your life. 

Too bad that other peoples nightmares was my daydreams. 

But I was convinced in the end. Price has a very smooth tongue when he wants to and it only took a small amount of reminding to make me follow order once again. I was about to infiltrate Hogwarts until Voldemort attacked, as no one knew about his whereabouts for the moment. I was to pose as Harry Potter aka the boy who lived (my old self in other words) until the news of my return reached Voldemort and he went to attack. Which he without doubt would at the chance of killing me off once and for all. 

So here I was, stationed on the train with my truck overhead and dressed in school robes of all things. My Harry inside of me screamed in agony or the like, telling me about how fucking messed up this was. How fucking messed up I was and how everyone would hate me. All the people I’d grown up with who I’d just abandoned to do what?? End lives? Torture other human beings? Hang out with the most lethal and cold murderers on the planet? 

Yes to all of the above. 

They will hate you, Harry whispered inside of my mind. 

I know, I answered tiredly feeling something akin to nervousness in my gut. Merlin, I hadn’t been nervous in four years time maybe this would be harder than I’d anticipated?

You’re a cold-blooded killer, Harry nagged for about the hundredth time. A monster.

What the fuck can they do about it? I answered with venom lancing my voice. 

You cut people up and laughs like Christmas has come early. You’re sick.

I ignored the constant nagging of my dead morals. I knew what I was; that I still heard whispers about it was only some lingering traits of an otherwise long dead boy named Harry Potter. 

You’re dead, I whispered to the voice of my morals. I don’t feel what you say I should feel, I only feel like ripping the world apart and watch it burn. 

The voice stayed quiet after my words as I leaned back against the wall of the apartment. I wondered briefly about Dumbledore and what he would say? Would he hate me, hate that I basically was worse than Voldemort? 

There was an odd sensation in my stomach as I thought about them all. Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore, Sirius and Remus. I couldn’t even imagine Molly’s reaction so I didn’t. 

Hermione would ask why.

Ron would ask if I was joking.

Sirius would look at me with a fading smile as he slowly realised that I was serious. 

Remus would think that there was something inside of me, like the wolf was inside of him.

Dumbledore would look at me like a new Tom Riddle.

I fiddled with my thumbs as I watched people border the Hogwarts Express. Price had already contacted certain people within the Ministry, “safe” people. I wondered if Dumbledore had been one of them. Otherwise this might be a nasty shock for the whole school if Harry Potter simply returned four years after his disappearance. 

I found myself wondering if anyone would recognise me. I suppose that I was different; taller, leaner and rougher all over. My hair was pretty long since I’d been on a mission for six months before this one, and I guess that the tattoos might make me stand out from the crowd. 

I let out a long sigh as I laughed without mirth. Who the fuck was I kidding? It had been four years since last?! Four years of constant battle and fighting for surviving. I had led men into battle, I’d murdered, I’d tortured prisoners, I’d fucked, I’d not cried even once and I’d enjoyed hell like only a sick man could. 

Whatever had made Price come up to me four years ago after the brawl with Dudley was proof enough that I was a certain kind of person. A certain kind that people spotted from miles away and also kept miles away from. 

So whom the fuck thought that it was a good idea to seat me on a train with children?

I held my breath as the first kid opened the door to my compartment. It was a first or second year that threw one glance at me before shutting the door close with a bang. I stared out from the compartment as I heard hushed voices drifting away down the hall. So far so good. So far it was only youngsters that had opened the compartment door. 

I’d jumped onto the Express earlier than the rest so I was already seated when we arrived at platform 9 3/4. Which was just as good, the platform was a disaster waiting to happen with hundreds of people everywhere. I’d probably gone into berserk mode because of the dreadful feeling in my gut and people pressing in from everywhere. 

I wasn’t usually one for losing control, but when I did… it wasn’t pretty. 

“Really Ron have you even looked into any compartments or are you just saying they’re full because you’re lazy?”

“Why would I?! We still need to sit somewhere I’d gain literarily nothing to pretend looking into the compartments!”

I felt my body jerk as I heard the voices drift down the busy corridor of the train. Fuck, fuck, fuck… I’m not fucking ready…

Monster, murderer, they will hate what you have done-

Shut the fuck up! 

“Here maybe?”

Hermione was just outside the door. I felt my breath speed up and wondered why the fuck I cared? I hadn’t cared for four years so why was this so damn different? Why did my fingers itch like they did before a fight when this was anything but. 

“Hey”, I heard Hermione behind me as I stubbornly stared out the window. “Is it okay if I and my friend share this compartment with you?”

She expected an answer right? I couldn’t get away with ignoring her, I needed to look her in the eye as she realised that I was Harry Potter… whom I really wasn’t. Harry Potter was dead and had left me in his wake-

Demon. 

She would hate me, non of them would understand. And that was okay really, because I didn’t need them, I didn’t care about them, all I wanted was to kill Voldemort and then be out of here. I wanted to return to killing and torturing and not thinking. I wasn’t meant to be here at Hogwarts? There were no house that would fit me, Slytherin was to freaking bright for the darkness that I was consumed by. 

Monster. Throat cutter. 

“Erm, can we? There’s almost full everywhere else on the train-”

“Sure”, I didn’t turn away from the window as my rough voice answered her. 

I heard shuffling behind me as she obviously turned to Ron with a questioning eyebrow. A lone mysterious stranger wasn’t exactly prime compartment company. 

Go away, I begged in my silent mind. Go away and please forget that I ever existed. 

Perhaps they already had? Maybe they’d forgot about me. 

I turned as someone sat on the opposite seat of mine. It was a long boy with burning red hair and freckles all over his face. He had to be at least two meters tall and the once boyish face was now rid of baby fat and had acquired a strong jaw. There was no doubt that this redhead was eighteen-year-old Ron the man, no longer the boy. 

His brown eyes met mine for a fraction of a second and I felt rather than saw how he recognised me under the scars and the tangled stray locks. 

“Harry”, he whispered silently. His voice was filled with awe and his eyes were suddenly filled with something resembling tears. I felt myself scream on the inside as my body tried to break out of my skin. 

I’M NOT YOUR HARRY! I’M SICK! I’M TWISTED! STAY THE FUCK AWAY!

Instead for screaming the truth I said with a stuttering breath. “Hi Ron.”

“Harry?” I heard the disbelieving voice and turned my gaze to the left where Hermione sat beside Ron. 

“Hi Mione”, I whispered as something stuck in my throat rendering my voice to nil. They stared at me like I was Christ. Like I was something fragile and something that would disappear if they even thought about moving. 

We sat like that for a while. Just staring at each other. 

Hermione was beautiful. There was no other way to put it. The bookish, brushy haired witch who no one had really looked twice at had transformed and looked downright gorgeous. She was tall and slim dressed in a simple pair of muggle jeans and a hoodie; I wondered how may hearts she’d broken. 

Just as the thought had left me I noticed that her hand was intertwined with Ron’s. Oh my brain supplied my otherwise blank thoughts. Good for them. 

As I saw my childhood friends I felt myself wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t disappeared. What would have happened if I’d stayed? Would I have managed to go back to the way I’d been? Or was I already then so broken that it would have only brought pain and misery?

I watched how a silent tear ran down Hermione’s face as she stared at me with her warm eyes. It made my skin itch and I longed for something to hurt, something that would take away this frustration. But found myself only clenching my fists. 

Fire, blood and madness. 

“Harry”, Hermione said once again and started to lean forward against me. I felt like a trapped animal as I saw her soft looking hand slowly approach me.

Murderer. Demon. They would never touch you if they knew.

“Don’t touch me!”

Hermione jerked back at my cry and I quickly drew myself closer to the wall behind me, trying to melt into it. She stared at me with widened eyes and I noticed how Ron’s hand clenched hers tightly. 

That’s right, I thought as I saw Hermione’s scared gaze turn towards concerned. I’m broken and you better keep her away from me before I hurt her. 

I breathed lightly as I felt their searching gazes wander my skin. I felt like a skittish animal-

You are… an animal that is.

“Please”, I breathed out after a moment of tens silence. “Just don’t touch me.”

Hermione might have nodded from across the compartment but I just stared down at my hands. Her hands had been soft, book hands as Pavel usually said. My hands on the other hand… were rough and filled with millions of tiny scars, almost creating an enchanting web of white lines. 

The difference was all too clear to me. 

“Harry”, Ron’s voice was filled of something I refused to name as I continued to stare down at my hands. 

I’ve strangled people with these hands. I’ve ended more lives with these hands than what I have saved. 

“What happened mate”, I heard Ron’s voice in the back of my head and couldn’t suppress the mad laughter that bubbled up at the question. 

I saw how my two best friends jerk at the sound. “The question isn’t what have happened, the question is weather you really want the answer.”

I tried to supress smiling, I really did, and I’m not usually one for laughing and dancing on the battlefield but… I guess that I was nervous. So I gave a chilling smile at the duo in front of me as I mentally heard Harry’s voice (had it grown stronger) scream at my stupidity. 

Smiling like that is creepy. They are going to hate you even before they know how sick you really are.

“Harry”, Hermione’s slightly shrill voice made me drop my mad smile and stare at her intently. I couldn’t help but notice how she seemed to shiver involuntarily. This wasn’t going to work. 

“Guys”, I said and let out a deep breath. “You should leave, I’m not staying long at Hogwarts anyway and things… yeah things aren’t really as they use to be.” I swallowed down that odd lump in my throat before continuing. “I’m not the same Harry anymore, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to get to know me. So maybe you should find another compartment-”

“NO.” My head snapped up at the cry and saw how both Hermione and Ron looked at me with determinate looks. 

No, I realised with an icy feeling. Telling them to leave me alone wouldn’t do it. 

“Harry what the fuck happened? You disappeared four years ago and no one has seen you since! And now you what? Show up at the Hogwarts Express without telling anyone that you’re back! Where were you even? Did you get kidnapped? Did you run away? And why didn’t you owl us? Leave a note? ANYTHING?!” 

Hermione had dropped Ron’s hand and clenched her fists at her sides. “How the fuck did you dare to leave us for four years?!” 

I stared at her with that caged feeling once again. Like I was the prey and she the predator. I didn’t like feeling like a prey. 

“What the fuck would you have done?!” I asked with a surprisingly accusing voice. Hadn’t I gotten over this? Squabbling with eighteen years old? What was I a rookie? Apparently not as I continued to scream as if I actually cared. The scariest thing about this whole ordeal was that maybe I did.

“I’m not normal? I never was a hero or the golden boy. You two are fucking messed up if you think you know me.”

“We knew you better than anyone”, Ron said with furrowed brows. Almost leaping up from the seat to shake me, like that would make me anything but more angry. He seemed to restrain himself in time thought, good. 

“You knew fucking nothing.” I snarled into their faces. “It wasn’t you who was on the graveyard that night, it wasn’t you who had a part of Voldemort right inside of you…”

Hermione paled as I hissed the poisonous words to their faces. My stance aggressive and my inner in turmoil. 

“Harry what”, her voice sounded calm, a bit broken but no longer angry. It felt worse than before somehow. 

“Yeah, you didn’t know did you? How I had a part of Voldemort’s soul inside of me. Well you can relax; he couldn’t stand me so he broke. Even a dark lord can have too much of the good apparently.” I snickered at my own words as I remembered the event. 

My magic grew exponentially the first year after I’d joined Death Squad and it was around there that I found out about Voldemort resting deep inside of me. I’d always known that there was something connecting us, but to actually have his filth inside of me? I didn’t need to worry really. The dreams of him torturing and killing didn’t affect me as much as it had. Not when I lived as I did. 

In the end Voldemort seemed to be suffering more from my dreams than what I did from his and he cut off the link in-between. A year later a guy in Korea fixed the horcrux inside of me, took it out and destroyed the black lump of Tom Riddles soul. But not before I’d sent him the worst of my time in Death Squad through the link. I hoped he had nightmares for weeks.

Hermione just stared at me as if she saw me for the first time. Mouth hanging slightly open and hands trembling in her lap. Ron wasn’t much better, his eyes stared at me with wary and his body was angled slightly towards Hermione, like he wanted to protect her. 

Of course he wants to protect her. You’re not a protector anymore; you’re the reason why protectors are needed.

“Harry”, she said in a low voice. “Why did you change? What was wrong? What did we miss? I thought you would be all right that summer… It was just a month-” She whispered the words with a hurried urgency. Like she raced against time, when in reality the time had already passed. 

“It doesn’t matter”, I said with a trembling voice. Why was my voice trembling? “It’s already too late.” I turned away from the gazes directed at me, I couldn’t stand looking into their eyes that were surely to be filled of something that would make me break once again. I wondered why I cared about them now again? Hadn’t I stopped caring after that fateful summer? When I’d hit Dudley repeatedly without a hint of neither regret nor hesitation? Why was this different?

It’s good that you care. 

Shut the fuck up! I tightened my fists along my sides as Harry for the first time in four years told me I was doing something good. I didn’t care. Why the fuck would I?! 

“Harry”, Hermione said with a small voice. Fuck I hated my name, that wasn’t my name anymore why didn’t they get that? Drop the whole act and call me demon or monster like everyone else outside of Death Squad. 

“No”, I said with a warning lancing my voice. “It’s not your fault, but it happened. So please leave me alone.”

The compartment erupted in silence for a few long seconds and I almost started to believe that they would leave. I felt a twitch of unease at the thought. 

No, I thought to myself. I want them to leave. I don’t need them and they certainly don’t need me. I’m a killer; my hands itch because I want a throat in my hands to strangle right now. They’re Gryffindor’s, we don’t work anymore. 

“Harry”, it was Ron’s deep voice that rang out over the compartment. “I know that things have happened. It’s apparent because you’re not fourteen anymore, and neither are we. We’ve all changed and I don’t blame you for doing that. Neither does Hermione-”

“You would”, I interrupted with a coarse voice. “You will.”

“Then try us”, Hermione said and leaned forward. “We won’t hate you for anything you might have done. Harry… You’re still our friend. We never stopped looking for you and we won’t let you go now that we’ve found you.”

I felt something wet gather in my eyes and I wondered why ten minutes with people I hadn’t met for four years rendered me to this. To this weak person who felt nervous, guilt and actual loss. I hated it; I wanted to hate them for doing this to me. But most of all did I want to hate myself because of this. I had been convinced that this part of me was dead, the one who made friends and cared. Because that was what this lump in my throat was, care. The word felt like filth in my brain. 

“It’s not really your decision is it?” I asked with a purposeful cold voice. “I could just be out of here if I wanted.”

Hermione nodded in agreement with pleading eyes, quick to smooth my bruised ego with delusion of power. Power I knew that I didn’t have because I was stuck on this train and stuck at Hogwarts until Voldemort showed up. 

“Yes Harry”, she said with care lancing her soft tune. “You’re back and I don’t know why. But please try to make us understand at least. Don’t you owe us that much?” 

“I don’t owe you anything”, I spit out and pressed myself closer down the seat. “I don’t owe anyone anything.”

Yes you do. You owe them big. 

Hermione and Ron just looked at me with large and pleading eyes, obviously trying to understand me and figure out what had happened. I swallowed involuntarily as the silence dragged on. 

Ron had clasped his hand with Hermione’s once again and I felt a dull sting of anger at the thought of them growing up together. Growing up without me. 

You choose it. You choose to forbear this in favour of becoming a monster. 

I knew that. I knew that it was my own choice that led me away from the path of friendship and youth. I didn’t regret it. 

“You’re going to hate me”, I whispered with a surprisingly mild voice. Almost sounding warm in the empty compartment. “And that’s good, because then you’re going to stay away and leave me alone. So when I leave after this school year you won’t wonder about me, you’ll only be glad that I’m gone from your lives.” 

“No Harry-”

“Yes Ron.” I rolled my eyes as I felt my skin tingle of the uncomfortable feeling of talking about things related to Death Squad. I knew that I couldn’t talk about it, we were after all one of the highest operators in the world and many missions had been classified. But I could tell them about me, about me fighting and lovin’ it. I could tell them about the joy I felt when ending lives, when tasting blood and hearing screams. I could tell them about the torture and the unsettling feeling that came with never feeling guilt. I could tell them about my new nicknames. Monster. Demon. 

I guess that I could show them my tattoos. The ever-moving pentagram on my back that contained my dark magic or the many artworks conjured by Adisa that covered my arms. The scars might also do the trick in showing Mione and Ron to back the fuck away. The thousands of small scars covering my whole body and the deeper ones that told tales of cruelty and pain. I usually gave better than what I received so you could almost say that every scar on my body represented a death by my hands. That wouldn’t be completely correct as I killed and tortured more than I’d even cared to count but the Gryffindor’s would at least get a clue. 

“You’ll all be glad that you’re safe,” I continued with a poisonous voice. “You’ll all be glad that you can sleep safe in your beds once again without worrying about Potter cutting your throats out in the night.”

Hermione looked pale at the end of my statement, like she couldn’t believe what I had just said. I laughed an empty laugh at her expression, I hadn’t even gotten started and she was already scared? What a fucking joke. 

“Why would you say that”, Ron was once again angling his body slightly towards Hermione’s (I doubted that he even knew he was doing it) as he stared at me with wide eyes. 

“Because it’s the truth?” I said and shrugged my shoulders in a matter-of-fact way.

“Why is it the truth?” Hermione asked with a small voice, like she really didn’t want to know the answer but asked anyway. 

I smiled grimly her way before moving my gaze towards my hands. I couldn’t look at either Ron or Mione right now. “Because I’m not like you anymore. I think I never was.” My voice was low and very uncommon to me. Usually I spoke with a cold detached voice or with a sick kind of joy lancing it. Never with this almost vulnerable tune piercing my words. 

Monster. Demon. Tell them about that you’re not Harry. Tell them and look if they stay. They won’t.

“Try to tell us mate”, Ron sounded almost desperate. “Try us.”

“Okay”, I said as I’d already decided to scare these two kids away from me. For their own protection or for my own protection was rather unclear at the moment but however it was, I went with it. 

I dragged up one of my sleeves to my robe to reveal my arm, filled with dancing tattoos in images that was better left to nightmares. My life story since four years back painted right on my skin:

Fire, blood and madness.

There was fire, moving in enchanting ways, sometimes leaving shadows in its wake where monsters looked through with white eyes and sharp fangs. There was also blood. It dripped down my arms, fighting the fire, creating abnormities within the confines of my skin, a constant battle for dominance of their limited regime. The tattoos were colourless but non-the less frightening in their appearance and I knew what kind of reaction people had to them. 

Sometimes when I tortured people. Tough people, that didn’t break under the pressure of pain or abuse, I used my tattoos. When they were tired and burning with pain I allowed them to get lost in the whirling patter on my arms. 

Adisa wasn’t allowed to do tattoos anymore since they drew people mad. Maybe that was why he’d joined Death Squad, to get some kind of release from the madness within him that seemed to claw on his insides? 

When I had asked him after two years of constant battle to make my deeds permanent on my skin, he had smiled with warmth I’d never seen before. Even thought he was forbidden from drawing his mad inner on skin or paper, we were the exception, the Death Squad. Not that anyone else than Mike and I dared to wear Adisa’s marks but he didn’t get punished for making our skin a death trap. It had come in handy when I broke peoples minds, to make them stare at madness for hours before breaking. Telling me what I wanted to know while screaming for some form of resurrection. I usually gave it to them in the swift form of a painless death.

But now it weren’t any half broken prisoners in front of me. It was Ron and Hermione who stared at my arms with pale fascination. I weren’t worried for their mental health yet. Usually you had to be mentally and physically weak for letting my tattoos work you open and rape your mind. And as I hadn’t tortured either Ron or Hermione two days prior to showing them my new skin there should be no danger. 

“Harry”, Hermione’s voice sounded thick at her silent exclamation. “What have you done with your arms.”

“Improved them”, I answered with dry humour. 

She dropped Ron’s hand and moved her book hands towards my arm yet again. I saw how Ron tensed as she approached me. 

“Please”, she said and looked me straight in the eye as her hands moved that last inch and were touching my arm. I almost hissed at the unfamiliar sensation. 

Her hands were warm and soft, caressing my skin carefully with gentle movements. I felt something warm move in the depths of my stomach at the feeling as I allowed her to continue, albeit reluctantly. 

She let her fingers run down my arm with featherlike movements and traced a scar here, the tattoos shifting form there and the unmistakable muscles that lay underneath it all. 

“Have you worked out”, she asked with a shaking voice. The attempt to light the atmosphere was appreciated even thought it remained ineffective. 

“Yeah, you could say that.” My voice was thick with something I couldn’t quite place and I closed my eyes as Hermione continued her wandering. Ron seemed to join as I felt a pair of still soft, but somehow larger hands on my arm. 

“Christ mate”, Ron said with a trembling voice. “Who did this to you?”

I laughed without any joy or mirth before clenching my fist hard. “I did it to myself, isn’t it pretty?”

“Harry”, Hermione sounded close to tears. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” My voice sounded harsher at her fragile tone. Could we skip this part and jump to when they realised that I was a monster and left?

“Don’t try to brush this away, talk to us.”

“There’s really not much to talk about-”

“Try us”, Hermione’s hand clenched around my arm and if felt good to feel something else than tender touches. To feel something resembling a hard grip rather than dopey patting. I used her grip as a lighthouse in a storm, grounding my thoughts on that one feeling, ignoring everything else in favour of gathering myself. I opened my eyes and stared across the compartment towards my once best friends. I suppose we were strangers to each other right now… We should be. 

They were leaning forward in their seat, sitting narrowly together and clasping my arm but rather looking at me instead of my tattoos. They looked concerned.

Fools. 

I silently wondered if that was my thought or old Harry’s. 

Why did they still care? Why did both of them beg me to try them? Like they imagined that it couldn’t be that bad. Like they saw a fourteen-years-old instead of a murderer that had nothing to do with the scared little boy they knew long time ago. 

Ron said that people changed. He forgot to mention that some people die and is replaced with something colder than death. 

“This”, I said as Hermione and Ron continued to stare at me with caring eyes. “Is how my head looks like on the inside. This is how my brain works. This is how my eyes see and how I feel whenever I wake up in the morning and fall asleep in the night. You don’t want to know me-”

Here Ron had opened his mouth but I only raised my free hand in a silencing gesture. He closed his mouth with a frowning face. 

“I’m serious”, I continued and leaned slightly forward in my seat. Both Ron and Hermione shifted but neither moved away, stubborn idiots. “I’m something that drive people mad, I’m no longer the hero everyone thought I would turn out to be. Or…” I smirked towards the duo in front of me. “… If you want a hero who enjoy violence, who craves it. Sure, then I can be your hero.”

Hermione shook her head in denial. “You don’t enjoy violence Harry.”

“WRONG”, I smirked as both of them almost jumped in their seat. “I used to not enjoy violence. But that was before I hit my fat cousins face until his jaw broke and his tongue was clipped clean off. That was before I started to get a kick out of strangling people.” 

There were falling silent tears from Hermione’s face as my mad rambling continued. Ron held a distinctly sick expression and his face had taken the shade of pale green. But both of their hands were still clasped over my arm, gripping it like their lives depended on it. It made me feel like the one saving them, like the lighthouse in the storm, like the hero. But I wasn’t anymore, and never would be. 

Tell them how sick you are, look if they stay. 

So I did. 

I started to tell them about the fist time I killed a man. How good it had felt, how right the world had seemed. I told them how broken I was, how if I didn’t kill I went into a rampage. I told them about battles, about long nights of torturing, of Voldemort’s screams when he dreamt about my life, I told them about murders. 

All the while they stayed by my side. Crying, sobbing and caring. 

It was disgusting. I wanted them to judge me, tell me what an evil person I was. Tell me that I was a demon, a monster that should be killed. They didn’t. 

The more I spoke the more gruesome the details became. My voice grew more hysteric as my tale continued, bringing forth the most blood drenched details of my voyage outside of Great Britain. Telling them about new cursers I’d learned, how Avada Kedavra was one of the mildest spells I used now a days. I told them about what were my commonly used curses; there was one moment where I was fairly sure that Ron might puke. 

He didn’t thought. 

I continued to tell about blood and misery, waiting for Hermione or Ron to let go of me and look at me for what I was. They never did. 

In the end I was so tired. So tired of letting my soul wash over people who had no reason to care for me. Tired of waiting for rejection and hate that never came. I felt empty, like I’d fought five hundred battles singlehandedly without the mercy of bloodlust and adrenaline. I don’t know when my tears started to fall but all of a sudden I found myself screaming at Ron and Mione to hate me. That I was a monster and that I could kill them, that I would kill them if they got to close. My vision was blurry and my whole being wanted to tear something apart, preferably myself. 

As I tried to jerk my arm away from their grasp I found that I couldn’t. They held on and I just felt too tired, too drained to do anything else than slump against the seat and let fucking tears stream down. 

Why doesn’t they hate me? I thought desperately.

They will. Once they see you murdering. Once they see who you are instead of hearing tales.

Yeah, old Harry was probably right. They will hate me. 

My thoughts were like acid on skin as I felt myself getting dragged into an embrace by Hermione and Ron. I knew that they were going to hate me when they saw me smiling on the battlefield. When they saw me kill Voldemort in the most gruesome way possible, laughing and content. 

For now, tears streamed down my face as the warm bodies of my two best friends surrounded me. 

I don’t know why I cried, or why Hermione held me, shaking of fear but still whispering soothing words in my ear. Lies of course, but non the less sincere. 

“Shh, it’s going to be alright Harry. We’re not going to let anything happen to you again. You’re going to be alright.”

I wanted to laugh but found myself crying harder. It felt like years since I’d felt anything except on the battlefields and that all came rushing down at the same time. I don’t even know what I was crying about? I didn’t feel anything remotely about all the people I’ve killed or tortured, so why was I crying? Perhaps it just was one of those moments when you realise what could have been but never will. Perhaps I’d seen a different way, one with friends, school and less killing.

And the sad thing was that everything was too late. Too fucking late. And that out of everything was breaking me on the inside.

Hate me, I begged silently. 

It’s good that you know what you deserve.

Yeah, I responded to the voice. I’ve always known what I deserve. 

You’re a monster.

Yeah.

A demon.

Yeah.

You have to make amends. 

I listen to the voice inside of me as my body trembled because of the warmth around me. The sensation seemed foreign to me, like I’d felt it once before in another life. 

I don’t think I can, I whispered to the voice inside of my head. 

You can try.

Maybe, I answered hesitantly. 

The voice didn’t replay and I felt myself being jerked back to reality as a soothing hand combed through my hair. 

“Shh, mate”, I heard Ron’s trembling voice as his hand clenched my shoulder. “We’re not going to leave, no matter what.”

Yes you are, I though bitterly. And if they didn’t I would. After Voldemort was dead and buried I would leave once again. My heart felt funny at the thought but I refused to examine it further. 

You can try.

Yeah, I thought. Maybe I could.

**Author's Note:**

> AN/ Yello!   
> This was just something random that popped up in my mind x) enjoy!
> 
> Have an continuing great night/day!


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